The Only Place I Go

A piece of flash nonfiction and university assignment based on an interview I conducted.

Since 2012, Delicious Nights has lit up the stage at The Voodoo Lounge, a Northbridge nightclub nestled in the late-night sprawl. It’s not an every-Saturday affair—most nights, the lights stay out and the stage silent—but during opening hours, the energy is unmistakable. Yes, it’s a male stripper revue, but more than that, it’s a ritual for the regulars. People—mostly women—gather beneath the lights and music, drawn not only by the glint of abs or the sway of hips, but by familiarity, community and return.

I first came to Delicious out of curiosity, but kept coming back because the glances, songs and energy felt strangely grounding. Every night, I always found a woman in the crowd: quick to laugh, unapologetically present. Her name was Holly. She first came in 2019 after a friend invited her, and she’s been returning ever since. “I’ve been to so many places where I felt out of place,” she told me on Instagram. “But here, they talk to me. They include me.” Holly lives most of her life alone, uses a wheelchair, and has weathered years of being underestimated. But at Delicious, she isn’t in the background—she’s part of the scene.

On her first night, she lost her voice from yelling, laughing, and living. “The staff were so lovely, and the guys weren’t just there to make money,” she revealed. “They talked to me. They wanted to know who I was. It made me want to go back.”

And she did. In a life with few safe places, Delicious became a constant. “It’s the only time I go out socially,” she explained. “I wait for Delicious to be open so I can go out.” A rhythm, a ritual.

Across my four visits, Holly and I moved from strangers to soft acquaintances to friends. I’d see her rolling through the crowd, scanning for familiar faces and even waving at me. That’s how Delicious works; return enough, and everyone starts to feel known. The same men dance as the music pulses in the nightclub. The same women sip cocktails and slip fifty-dollar bills into waistbands for lap dances. Time doesn’t pass—it loops.

Holly was born with Spina Bifida. She used to walk, but by fifteen, she chose the wheelchair full-time. “People underestimate me because of it,” she explained. “They think I have nothing to live for.” But she’s had the last laugh. She’s a qualified medical receptionist, a model who found confidence through a body positivity seminar, and a proud bisexual woman who advocates for disability representation.

Still, outside of Delicious, things are harder. “My family thinks I’m disgusting for coming here. Except my dad. He knows, but doesn’t talk about it,” she told me. “My life outside is mostly just me sitting at home on my own.” Her old friends have moved on—married, with kids, living elsewhere. “So the only friends I have now are the ones I’ve made through Delicious.”

There’s safety in repetition, in returning to a place where your presence is accepted. “The guys can tell when I’m not okay. They sit down and talk with me,” she said. “I’ve never had friends know me like that before.” But even sacred spaces crack; once, a dancer she’d grown close to, Jack, got into a financial argument with her ex-husband outside the club during a Christmas event. Caught in the middle, Holly went home in tears. “I didn’t go back for months,” she explained. “I couldn’t. I went back when I found out Jack no longer worked there.” And when she did, she was welcomed back. “All the guys took my side,” she said. “They knew what happened wasn’t okay.”

Stories like Holly’s aren’t rare at Delicious, but they mean everything to those who live them. To outsiders, strip clubs might seem sleazy or shameful. But for some, they’re not that at all—they’re necessary places of care.

When the lights go up and the music fades, I often see Holly lingering at the end of the wheelchair ramp, reluctant to leave. “I feel like I don’t want to go home,” she admitted. “I wish it was open every Saturday, for longer than four hours.”

It’s not just the dancing. It’s not the flirtation, or even the alcohol. It’s the rhythm of being recognised. The way certain men know her moods, the way they’ve created a space that doesn’t just welcome her—it holds her.

“They aren’t just strippers,” Holly said. “They work hard. They’re kind-hearted men who want to bring happiness to people. And their dancing? It’s athletic.”

I think about that a lot—athleticism as care, performance as communion. Stripping not as objectification, but as ritual. Something Holly—and women like her—return to not because they’re lost, but because they know exactly where they’re seen.